Winning It All (Hometown Players Book 4) (3 page)

He smirks at that; it’s deep, dark and delicious. “Sounds like you’re not a Westwood fan.”

“I hate all hockey players.” He looks taken aback and I realize “hate” is a really strong word, even if I mean it. “It’s a long story, but trust me, I have my reasons.”

He pauses for a second but then he reaches up and cups the side of my face again. My whole body tingles. He’s going to kiss me again and I want him to, but any second my brother or Sara or someone is going to come looking for me, and this moment will be gone—maybe forever. Suddenly, my urge to prevent that from happening is all-consuming, and I grab his hand and cross the hallway to the door to the laundry room.

Without thinking, I push it open and pull him in after me.

I’m about to kiss her again and internally debating how to tell her I’m a hockey player—someone she just professed to hate—when she suddenly pulls me across the hall, opens a door that has a small silver plaque on the front marked
Private
and pulls me inside.

She flips on a light. It’s a long, narrow room painted an ocean blue. Along one wall are three industrial-size front-loading washing machines. Across from that are four industrial-size front-loading dryers. On the wall opposite the door is floor-to-ceiling open shelving filled with bright blue-and-orange towels monogrammed with the gym logo. Next to the door is a metal folding table.

I look over my shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a perfect silver deadbolt just above the handle. I smile. When I look back at her she’s smiling too. “Out there I was just going to kiss you,” I explain to her in a quiet but confident tone. “If that door gets locked, I am going to do a lot more than kiss you.”

She walks toward me, her cheeks turning a delicious pink, and just when I think she’s going to kiss me, she slides to my left, her hand reaching behind me. As her lips ghost the edge of my jaw, I hear the undeniable scrape of the lock twisting. I reach up and grab her face in both my hands and our eyes lock. She looks slightly nervous but very excited. “I am going to make you come so hard, baby.”

Before she can react to my promise, I cover her mouth with my own and part her lips with my tongue. She kisses me back, matching my passion. Her mouth is warm and soft and it’s like taking a small lick from a delicious ice cream cone on a hot summer day. It’s perfect but not nearly enough. I move a hand from her face to her waist and pull her against me as I move my hips, pressing my hard-on into her stomach.

She responds by reaching down and grabbing my ass.

Oh fuck, this girl is perfect.

Am I doing this? I’ve never done this. I said I would never do this. But…oh, my God…I think as he pulls my earlobe between his teeth. Holy crap, I want to do this. With him. Here. Now. I can usually pretend like my sex hiatus is no big deal, but it’s been two years and four months and suddenly, that is a big freaking deal.

“No regrets,” I whisper as I let him push me back into the room until my ass hits one of the dryers. I was saying it to myself, not him, but he heard, and his ice-blue eyes find mine.

“I promise you’ll have none,” he whispers and devours my mouth again as I shove his suit jacket off his shoulders.

This boy can kiss. He’s dominant and forceful and it’s hot as hell. He owns my mouth. He knows it too, I can tell, and the competitive nature that has always driven me doesn’t even seem to care that it’s being owned. Because every kiss, every pass of his tongue over mine, every nip of his teeth on my bottom lip leaves a hint that giving in will be worth it.

He’s made some big promises. And it’s been so long that if he doesn’t fulfill them, I might actually cry. His sexy smirk and snarky mouth and mind-blowing kisses are the only reasons I suddenly want to be satisfied by something other than my own hand so please,
please
may he deliver.

His hands slide over the silky green fabric of my dress, slipping over my sides and my hips until they reach the hem, and then he starts to slide back up, under the dress, and I don’t even feel the slightest inclination to stop him. In fact, when he reaches edges of my thong I whisper, “Take it off.”

I don’t even know who I am anymore, but it doesn’t feel as wrong as I thought it would. Somehow it feels like this version of Shayne Beckford has always existed, locked away somewhere inside of me, but no one ever had the key—not even me. This stranger, Sebastian—hell, I don’t even know his last name—he has the key. I know that revelation will scare me later, when I’m home alone and overanalyzing the crap out of this. And I know that will happen because the Shayne Beckford that exists normally is still alive somewhere inside of me. She’s just been hog-tied and locked in a closet.

His fingers feel oddly rough for an accountant or lawyer or whatever hell he is as they trace the hem of my thong, scraping the inside of my thigh and making me shiver. He smiles into the kiss we’re sharing, and so I slip my hand in between us and cup his hardness through his pants. Just as I was hoping, it makes him shiver back. Good. Now we’re even.

Except we’re not even. Nothing about this feels like fair game. The way my body is responding to him, he’s definitely got the advantage. And as I rub my hand up his length—
way
up—I realize he’s got the advantage on a lot of men too. In fact, if you took both men I’ve been with and put them together, they’re probably the size of what Sebastian has in his pants. Oh man, I am really going to do this.

His fingers move out from under my dress, and he suddenly grabs my hips and lifts me, dropping my ass on the edge of the dryer. Then as he attacks my neck, sucking on the sensitive flesh, he pushes my dress up over my hips and hooks his fingers into my thong. He drops my underwear onto the floor without glancing at them, thankfully, because they’re soaking wet and not very sexy, just plain cotton, heather gray—the kind I wear under my yoga pants. I reach for his belt.

Panic starts to seep into the edges of my lust. I still want him, I do, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I don’t know the etiquette for this. Should we set rules here? Are there rules? Do I ask if he has a condom, or just give him the one I shoved in my bra earlier? Is that hot? Pulling a condom out of my bra? Or is it slutty? Oh God, I’m clueless.

I get his pants undone and start to shove them off his hips but it’s hard because he has such a tight, hard ass. Seriously. It’s like a rock. A big, round, hot, sexy rock. His hands slide up my thighs, and once his pants are at his ankles I start to slide my own hands under his dress shirt. His stomach and chest are just as hard as his ass. Seriously, he must spend all his free time working out. That either means he’s already a member at another gym and I’ll never see him again or that he’s a workout-aholic and he’s going to be so impressed by this place he joins. I don’t know which scenario makes me more nervous—never seeing him again or seeing him every day after this.

“Shay…baby…” His voice is soft but chastising, his accent heavy. “I’m about to touch you for the first time,
really
touch you, and you’re frowning.”

I realize I’ve been stuck inside my head and I didn’t even realize his fingers are pressing against my inner thigh, inches from…And then two are inside me and my mouth opens in a wordless gasp. He covers it with his own mouth and his tongue starts to move in rhythm with his fingers and I start to tingle—down
there
. Oh my God, I can’t come. It’s too soon. He’ll think I’m like some weirdo who never has sex. It’s too needy and desperate…isn’t it? Besides, if I’m coming, I’m not doing it without him. Oh God. I am going to…

I push him back. He looks startled for a second and then he smiles—it’s victorious and I blush. “You don’t want to come?”

“Yes, I do. I just…” I scramble in my head for a way to make this hot. But I’ve never been the sexy, sultry type of girl. So I just pull the condom out of my bra and lean forward and press it into his rock-hard chest. “I want you to earn it the old-fashioned way.”

He looks at the condom against his chest and smiles, his blue eyes flickering with something that looks like excitement and desire. Thank God I didn’t turn him off. “Challenge accepted.”

I’m really going to do this, I realize as I watch him drop his boxer briefs without any hesitation or modesty. He’s got a pretty dick. I can’t believe that’s even a thought rolling through my head, but it is. I’ve never thought that about any dick before, but his is long and thick without being too thick, and it looks like a work of fucking art. I think I’ve lost my fucking mind.

He rips open the condom package and slides it on with one hand as he reaches out with his other hand and grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me into another kiss. “Slow or fast? Light or hard?”

“Surprise me.”

I spread my legs, making room for him between them, and his hand slides down my neck to my back and then to my ass. He holds me on the very edge of the dryer and slides into me in one steady movement. I drop backward onto my elbows, arching my back, and he makes this sound in the back of his throat. Yeah. This is insane and I fucking love it.

The next several minutes are a blur of sensations—no thoughts, just tingles and friction and groans and moans. Somehow we end up with my legs over his shoulders as my whole back is pressed to the dryer and wall behind it. The bottom of my dress is up to my rib cage now, my lower half completely on display to his roaming eyes, and I don’t even care—in fact, it gets me hotter. He’s moving hard and fast and then he leans over me, pinning my legs between us, and pushes in deeper than I think I’ve ever experienced in my life and—he hits the on button and the dryer spins to life, shaking my whole body, and then I explode. I swear I see fireworks and God, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming as my orgasm destroys me.

A second later he arches his back and grunts and then drops onto me. His skin feels warm and damp through his dress shirt, and he sucks gently on the skin just below my right ear and whispers, “You are the sexiest woman I have ever—”

The doorknob twists. It’s as loud as a car bomb for some reason, and we both jump. I suddenly crash back to reality. I’m at the opening of my brother’s gym—the place where I teach yoga and nutrition—and I just fucked a stranger in our laundry room. Oh my God, what the hell is wrong with me? I push him away, jump off the dryer and grab my underwear off the floor.

“He has a key!” I whisper furiously. “If that’s Trey, he has a key!”

Sebastian’s face morphs into panic as well, and he burst into motion, shoving his underwear up over his condom-covered dick and reaching for his pants at his ankles. I try to smooth my hair and reach for the door just as the handle starts to turn again. And it opens.

Thankfully, it’s not my brother. It’s my coworker Sara, who will teach Pilates when this place officially opens on Monday. I smile at her like a drunk cheerleader after a pep rally. “Hey! I was just giving Sebastian a tour.”

Sara’s eyes are about to bulge out of her head. I’m too scared to look back. Is he dressed? Please let him have his pants on. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and all I can hear is the empty dryer rumbling as it spins. Oh God, this is so awkward.

“Someone spilled some beer in the lobby. I need towels,” Sara says in a weird tone. “The door was locked.”

“Oh. Oops.” I shrug and push past her. Once in the hall, I turn back and see that Sebastian did get his pants up. But his dress shirt is rumpled and untucked and his chestnut hair is completely askew. I am so busted.

“Trey is still looking for you,” she says pointedly.

“Right. Okay.” I glance from Sara to Sebastian and then, in a high-pitched voice with an awkward wave, I say, “Bye!”

I turn on my heel and scurry down the hall. Oh my God, what a crazy night. I’m still flustered and feeling a little wild when I find Trey in the cardio room—talking to my parents. And just like that, the universe has thrown a bucket of cold water on my amazing and crazy night.

My father looks up and smiles as he sees me. “There you are, Shaynie! Trey says you’re running this event, but we’ve been here an hour and haven’t seen you anywhere.”

He leans in and wraps his arms around me, hugging me tightly. I pat his back and wiggle free. My mom then leans in and air kisses both my cheeks before scrutinizing me with her perfectly made-up blue eyes. “Your hair is…Did you style it yourself? I could have gotten you an appointment with my girl Monique, you know.”

I try to smooth the flyaways. I’m sure it looked acceptable pre-Sebastian. Images of our little spin cycle sexcapade fills my head and I feel my face flush. Trey notices and gives me a confused look. “You all right? You’re all red.”

“I was demonstrating the equipment for some potential clients,” I lie and shrug when his face twists into an even more confused expression, because he knows I’m not nutty enough to demonstrate fitness equipment in a cocktail dress and heels.

“Good for you, Shaynie.” My father squeezes my shoulder. “We have to do what we can to help my boy. That’s why I’m here. My celebrity should earn him a few members.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Dear old Dad is a retired hockey player and former Seattle Winterhawk. But it’s been years since he’s done anything really active and it shows. I doubt his presence is going to sell gym memberships for Trey. That’s why my brother invited the current Winterhawks captain and his former college teammate, Avery Westwood.

“Speaking of hockey celebrities, where is that douchebag from the Winterhawks?” I ask Trey, which gets me a scowl.

“Avery is…” Trey’s eyes scan the room. “He’s here somewhere. I was talking to him a few minutes ago.”

“Westwood is here?” My father perks up. “That’ll make a great photo opportunity. Two Winterhawk legends. I’m going to track him down and get the girl from the paper to take a photo.”

My father turns and walks into the crowd. I finally roll my eyes. My mother sighs because she catches me, and that almost makes me want to roll them again. But Trey intervenes. “Shayne, why don’t you go get Mom some of the champagne?”

“Sure thing,” I mutter, and ignore her comment asking if it’s Veuve Cliquot or Ruinart because she prefers Ruinart. Of course she does. It costs more and she prefers anything that spends more of my dad’s money. I can’t blame her for that, though. She earned that money through pain and suffering—and denial.

As I make my way back over to the bar, my eyes scan the room for Sebastian, but I don’t see him anywhere. Sara eyes me suspiciously as she pours the champagne. “Were you fooling around with Sebastian? In the laundry room? During the party?”

“I was giving him a tour of the facilities.”

“
Your
facilities?” Sara asks and adds, “I don’t think that’s allowed. Trey would be pissed.”

“Sara, are you a Pilates instructor or the HR department?” I snap as I grab the champagne and storm back into the crowd. As I make my way over toward my mom, who is chatting with Trey’s wife, Sasha, I catch my father making his way down the hallway toward the changing rooms. He’s got his hand on the small of someone’s back. Someone in a red dress.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up and my gut twists uncomfortably. And then my feet start to follow him. I make it to the hallway just as he places a big palm on the men’s changing room door and the hand on the small of this lady’s back slips to her ass.

“Dad!” I holler sharply.

He spins, his hand falling to his side, and a placating smile fills his face. “Shayne, honey, I was just showing our old friend Elsa the state-of-the-art facilities. Do you remember Elsa? She used to do PR for the Winterhawks when I played.”

Elsa smiles, but it’s forced and tinged with panic. “Shayne? Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you since you were this high.”

I glance at her hand hovering around her waist to indicate how tall I used to be. I tighten my grip on the champagne and debate throwing it at both of them. But then, as I’ve learned from catching my dad being a cheating bastard more than once, that only makes
me
look bad. So instead I smile and say, “Well, other than my height, not much has changed. I still love gummy bears, hate hockey, and my parents are still married.”

She turns the color of her dress and then, with nothing more than a nod, she excuses herself and walks past me back into the main room. My father glares at me. “What the hell was that about?”

“We both know what that was about,” I reply tersely and turn to leave, but he puts his hand on my shoulder and walks with me.

“Shayne, Elsa is now a writer with
Seattle Living
and I was trying to charm her into a feature on this place. That’s why I had Trey invite her,” he informs me, his voice low.